The Harder They Fall
by Thaddeus MacChuzzlewit
Summary: Illya blinked in confusion. "Gaby?" She pried the phone from his cold fingers. He couldn't stop her. She dropped it to the pavement between them and brought down her heel, hard. The screen splintered, and with the next two stomps it was reduced to shattered plastic. "Sorry." Her voice was toneless. "That would sort of ruin everything if you called for help." Modern AU
1. Illya

.

* * *

 **The Harder They Fall**

* * *

 **Illya**

 **.**

The noise and the heat assaulted his senses as soon as Illya stepped into the bar. He took a sharp breath and stuffed his hand into his jacket pocket one more time, feeling the crinkle of the twenty under his fingers.

"Drink one for me," Napoleon had said, his slick black hair barely visible from behind the stacks of papers on his desktop. "If I can't enjoy myself tonight, you're going to do it for me."

Illya would have much preferred doing his partner's paperwork for him. But he wasn't going to return his money tomorrow and admit that he couldn't sit inside a bar by himself for the duration of one drink. He didn't like people, and Napoleon knew it. Everyone in the precinct knew it, and yet Napoleon was the only one who would not give up dragging him to every social function in the tri-state area.

Someone pushed past him, and Illya found himself moving further into the bar just to escape the press of bodies by the door. Americans had no respect for personal space.

Illya looked around the venue. There were still a few empty tables, but he'd found that people took the sight of a single person, at a table alone, as an excuse to sit down and talk. Or flirt.

The bar wasn't as busy. There were three men at one end, and a couple at the other.

Except they might not be a couple.

There was an empty stool in between them, and the young woman was ignoring the man, staring studiously at the wooden counter instead. When the man beside her leaned closer her head snapped up, and even though he couldn't hear, Illya could tell she was angry. She pushed him further away, but the man persisted in leaning into her space.

Illya felt his anger flare. The little woman didn't seem to be in any distress, more irritated than afraid, but he still wanted to put his fist in the man's face.

"Come on, sweetheart, I won't take no for an answer. You're too gorgeous to be heading home alone on a night like this."

Her glare could have curdled milk. "Are you deaf or stupid? How many times to I have to tell you I'm not interested?"

"Obviously I'm waiting for you to change your mind, honey. I'm-"

The man drew back in shock when Illya calmly slid onto the barstool between them. He sat sedately, waiting for the bartender's attention, ignoring his two neighbours.

The other man leaned forward, but he couldn't see the woman he'd been bothering around Illya's massive shoulders. He hopped off his stool, sputtering in anger.

Illya turned to level him with a cold stare. "Is problem?"

Standing up, the other man still wasn't as tall as Illya sitting. His anger deflated. "No. I. I was just leaving."

Illya turned back to the counter and ordered a single beer the next time the bartender came by. He hated beer, but he wasn't going to drink vodka and try to drive home. He tapped his fingers against the counter. The young woman was staring at him, but he had nothing to say that wouldn't be more awkward than silence. If he left now, would the other man come back to torment her?

"Your drink."

Illya flinched when she spoke. He'd been concentrating so hard on acting naturally that he hadn't noticed his beer arrive. He turned to give her a stiff smile. It came out more like a grimace. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Her brown eyes were bright and amused, even if the rest of her face was calmly inexpressive. Illya fumbled to take a sip of beer without spilling it.

"You were not born here, either? Were you?"

Now he caught the lilt of an accent on her voice and looked at her with more interest. "No. I am originally from Ukraine."

She nodded. "I moved here from Berlin five years ago."

"Your accent is very good."

"Thanks. It's probably from watching too much TV as a kid." She gave a quick flash of a smile, and Illya had a hard time forcing himself to blink.

He waved one hand distractedly. "I find American television too… too busy. So much, so quickly. No time to stop and think."

She turned back to sip at the drink in her own hand. "I don't disagree with you. But I, myself, _like_ fast.

"Oh." Illya could not think of anything to say next. He didn't think they were flirting, although the million shifting forms of English innuendo often passed him by, unrecognized. Illya was pretty sure they were just having a conversation. Was it over if he didn't reply, or was that just rude?

She had put down her drink and was staring at him again. "I'm Gaby."

The hand she stuck out was half the size of his, and he shook it carefully, conscious of how easily he broke things without thinking.

"Illya Kuryakin." He tipped his head to the other stool. "Is it alright I sit here?"

"Oh yeah." Her delicate brows furrowed. "Vince is a creep. He's engaged and he still won't leave me alone. Next time he brings his car in to our shop I'm going to wire his horn to the brakes."

"You work with cars?" he asked curiously. He'd taken every level of defensive driving the Academy offered, and Aced them all. But he knew next to nothing about how they worked on the inside.

"Not officially. But I live above an automotive shop and I tinker there some evenings and weekends. For fun, really."

They talked about cars for a long time, Gaby pleased to find someone genuinely curious about her favourite subject, and Illya delighted to talk about something real, not just bumble through the small talk that Napoleon excelled at. Then they moved on to the differences in America and their homelands. Gaby was from East Berlin, so they'd both been born under Soviet rule.

Gaby didn't smile much, and when she did, it seldom showed anywhere but her eyes. It was a relief to Illya, who believed in keeping smiles for special occasions, and found Napoleon's constant barrage of flashing teeth overwhelming. It also meant that when he won a smile from her, Illya could be sure it actually meant something.

When he next glanced at his watch over an hour had passed, and Illya was having a harder and harder time keeping his eyes open. He rubbed at them hard, and caught Gaby smirking at him as she stared pointedly at his empty beer stein.

"Not much of a drinker, are you?"

"No." He blinked and rose to his feet. "I am just tired. It was a long day. Will probably get a cab."

Gaby frowned and started fumbling coins out from her purse. "I suppose you're right. It is a work night, after all."

Suddenly feeling much too tired to wait for the bartender, Illya abandoned Napoleon's money on the counter and motioned towards the door. "Can I walk you to your car?"

"Sure."

Illya glanced down at Gaby as they pushed through the crowd. He wondered if he had done something to upset her. She had grown more serious as the night progressed, and now her face was pinched and tight with some unhappy emotion.

"Oh!" Tripping on the door step, Illya barely managed to catch himself. Gaby put out her hand, but he'd be more likely to crush her than gain assistance from it.

"Sorry. Am not usually so clumsy."

She just looked up at the confusion on his face and nodded. Gaby couldn't know that Illya had trained in gymnastics professionally as a child and a teen until his size disqualified him. He really was _never_ clumsy.

The bar was situated at the back corner of a parking lot, with a busy road on its far edges, and industrial lots at this back. Gaby started walking towards the industrial buildings.

"I actually parked on the other side of the fence."

Illya glanced around at the parking lot. There was plenty of room right here. He blinked again, trying to remember if it had been busy when he'd arrived.

It was dark now. How long had they sat in the bar?

There were a few slats missing in the wooden fence that blocked off the industrial buildings. Gaby ducked through easily, but Illya had to turn sideways, and still bashed his head against the top of the fence emerging.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes. No. I-" For some reason he was losing complete control over his English. "Is fine. Is good."

Gaby glanced behind her. The bar parking lot and the fence had been built up on a short retaining wall, and there was about a metre's drop down to the industrial lot. Normally that would be one particularly long step for Illya, but now?

"Do you want to sit down for a minute?" Gaby asked. She looked worried.

"Is good. _Just give me a minute._ "

No. Gaby's frown had deepened. That last bit was in Russian, wasn't it?

" _Don't worry. I'm fine._ "

Still Russian.

"I can't understand you, Illya."

He tried to reach out to touch her shoulder, but missed by a good two feet. Suddenly there were small hands on his arm, and clutching his hand.

"My car is just over there, and then you can sit down, Illya. Hey! Illya, look at me."

"Is looking. I is- I am looking." He blinked slowly, trying to keep Gaby's face in focus.

Thud!

His back hit the fence before he'd even realised he was losing his balance. Keeping his knees locked, Illya leaned heavily against the wooden slats and tried to find his jacket pocket with both hands.

"Illya, what are you doing?"

He couldn't look up at her, afraid any movement would send him tipping to the ground. He managed to get one hand in his pocket and closed his numb fingers around his cellphone.

"Cowboy. I need t'call…C'wboy." He was slurring now. Something was wrong, and Napoleon would be able to fix it. He just had to unlock his phone.

"What?"

"Cowboy. Is my pard-partn'r. He he'ps m-me."

Finally, the call screen appeared. Thankfully he kept the cowboy on speed dial.

"Your partner. You mean Napoleon Solo? You're trying to phone him to come help?"

Yes, he was. How did she know that? He hadn't told Gaby about Napoleon.

He tipped his head back against the fence, trying to locate Gaby through his swimming vision. She was standing right in front of him. Standing very close.

Illya blinked.

"G'by?"

She pried the phone from his cold fingers. He couldn't stop her. She dropped it to the pavement between them and brought down her heel, hard. The screen splintered, and with the next two stomps it was reduced to shattered plastic.

"Sorry." Her voice was hard now, and she didn't sound very sorry. "That would sort of ruin everything if you called for help."

Illya dropped to one knee with a jarring thud. Even with the world swimming around him, and his body slipping away from his control, he had a hard time believing this was happening to him.

"Y' drug'd me?" he wobbled, bewilderment creeping into his voice.

A hand steadied his shoulder, and another pressed a hot palm against his cheek. He couldn't keep his head from lolling into her touch.

"W-why?"

Gaby sighed, "That's a complicated question, and I don't think you'll be around long enough to hear the answer."


	2. Napoleon

_My thanks to all the lovely people who reviewed the last chapter! If you've read anything of mine before, you'll know I'm a terribly slow updater. But I hope you enjoy this new chapter anyways!_

* * *

 **Napoleon**

 **.**

Napoleon sat on the front steps of his apartment building, clutching his travel mug tight to his chest, waiting for Illya to pick him up.

They were supposed to carpool on Thursdays, and since Illya was a sadist, and refused to show up less than an hour early for work, Napoleon was forced to pry himself out of bed at an unholy hour of the morning to accompany him.

Except Illya didn't come.

So Napoleon waited.

And waited.

And waited…

"Well, this is ridiculous."

He got to his feet, dusted off his trousers and after draining his mug in one go, he dropped it into Mrs. Morgan's rhododendron bush. It was too much work to let himself back into his apartment. He'd collect the mug at the end of the day.

Napoleon pulled out his cellphone as he strolled around to the parking behind his building. Illya's phone went straight to the answering machine, which was odd, because Illya had never let his batteries go dead in all the time Napoleon had known him.

Perhaps it had broken?

He left five identical messages on his partner's phone anyways, just to annoy him, drove his own car in to the precinct, and then left five more messages from the parking lot before making his way into the building.

"Good morning, Solo," Rogers at the front desk greeted him without looking up. "You're late."

"I'm half an hour early."

Rogers finally looked up. "You're late for a Thursday. Where's Kuryakin?"

Napoleon shrugged. "Car trouble?"

The secretary was incredulous. "And he didn't call in?"

Casually spinning away from the desk, Napoleon headed further into the police precinct, walking backwards. "Everyone's allowed a bad day. He's not a robot."

"Keep telling yourself that, Solo. You are the only one who believes it!" Rogers shouted after him.

There weren't any messages left at Napoleon's desk, and Illya's was exactly the way he'd left it the night before. You could always tell if Detective Kuryakin had been in, because he locked all his office supplies into his desk drawers overnight. Napoleon was the only one that was allowed to borrow his stuff, and that was only because Illya had essentially given up trying to stop him.

At eight fifteen, he stuck his head into Captain Sanders' office.

"I finished all my paperwork last night. We don't have any open cases. Illya hasn't shown up yet, so I'm going over to his apartment to check if he's dead."

Captain Sanders looked wholly unimpressed. "Get back to work Solo. He's only fifteen minutes late."

"An hour and fifteen minutes."

"Get back to work."

At nine o'clock, Napoleon broke into Illya's desk and read his planner. There were no appointments, meetings or activities scheduled for that morning. Then he turned on his partner's computer and checked his email. Illya was still under the impression that Napoleon hadn't cracked his latest password. It wasn't that hard. The computer didn't accept Cyrillic characters, so Illya's password was 'mypartneris100percentmoron', written out phonetically from Russian.

But there was nothing of importance in his emails either.

At ten o'clock, Napoleon stuck his head into Captain Sanders' office again.

"Oleg needs help on the McCallum case. I'm going out to interview some witnesses."

"Mhmm."

Napoleon collected his sports jacket from his desk and left the precinct.

He wasn't going to help Detective Oleg. He'd never actually said that's what he was going to do.

Sanders was such a chump.

He drove by Illya's apartment and checked the front door. Illya, paranoid fellow that he was, always lodged a black thread between the door and the frame, so he could tell if it had been opened while he was gone. It hadn't. His car wasn't out back.

It was, however, still parked outside the bar Napoleon had sent his partner to the night before.

Napoleon tapped on the door. It was only ten thirty and they didn't open until eleven.

A tired looking man in dress pants and a rumpled shirt opened the door. "Sorry buddy. We're not open yet."

Napoleon dug his ID out of his pocket and held it up. "Detective Solo, New York Police Department. Do you mind if I come in? I've got a few quick questions about a patron you served last night."

The barkeeper sighed. "Fine. Come on in." He retreated into the bar, leaving Napoleon to follow.

Napoleon like to think of this particular bar as their regular haunt. It was the closest place to unwind after a long week of solving cases, and dealing with a jackass of a boss. But Detectives Solo and Kuryakin had the highest closure rating in their precinct, and consequently spent way too much time being loaned out to other detective teams, other precincts, and even other agencies to smile, assist, and generally make Captain Sanders look like a better policeman than he was.

So they didn't make it to the bar very often. But if they did have the time, this is where they came.

Picking up his cleaning rag, the bartender settled himself behind the counter and got back to his work. "So what can I help you with?"

Flicking through his phone, Napoleon chose a picture of Illya giving him a dead-panned 'What do you think you're doing?' look, instead of the usual scowl he directed at his partner's camera.

"I'm looking for this man." He showed the barkeeper the picture. "He's about six foot five. Should have come in around eight o'clock."

Nodding, the barkeeper squinted at the picture. "Oh yeah. I remember him. Hard to miss someone that huge. He was sitting at the end of the bar down there, talking with a little brunette."

"A woman?" Napoleon's eyebrows rose.

"Yeah. I think he scared off some creep that had been bothering her. I'd been keeping an eye on the situation because I was afraid she might punch the creep if he stuck around much longer."

That made Illya's motivation a bit more understandable.

"Did you notice what time he left?"

"Um," the barkeeper paused. "He didn't ask for change. Just dropped a twenty on the bar and then I did a drop: moved some cash to the safe. Soo…" After flipping through a small booklet wedged under the till he looked back up. "Eleven fifteen. He left a couple minutes before eleven fifteen, with the girl."

Napoleon stopped scribbling in his notepad. Illya left with the woman? That was Napoleon's style, but not his partner's. There was no way Illya would follow a woman home on a first date. Especially if this was a random encounter.

"Were either of them drunk?"

The barkeeper rubbed at his forehead. "Your fellow was a little tipsy, actually. I was concerned about someone that big falling over. But he must have been drinking before he got here, cause I only served him one beer."

A little thread of ice began to wind its way around Napoleon's gut. That was also completely unlike Illya. He hated being intoxicated in public.

"And the lady?"

"No. She's been coming in a lot over the last few weeks. Always by herself and always sticks to soda."

"Do you know her name?"

"No. She pays cash."

"Oh." Napoleon flipped his notepad closed. "What about surveillance footage?"

"Why exactly are you looking at his guy?"

If he got any help now, when Illya didn't technically yet qualify as a missing person, he had to get it through cooperation or wiles. Napoleon brought out his phone again and found a picture of the two of them in front of a squad car. "He's a Police Detective. My partner, actually. And sometime after he left your bar last night he went missing."

The picture seemed to convince him, since the bartender relented, and beckoned Napoleon behind the counter. "I've only got two cameras, and the angle's not great. One of them covers the cash register, and the other is right outside the front door."

It didn't take him long to find the previous night's footage. Illya had been sitting too far down the bar to show up on the one camera, but they caught him entering and later leaving the establishment at a quarter after eleven.

Napoleon frowned as he watched Illya stumble, and then catch himself. It was too dark to get a clear look at the small brunette's face. She seemed to show concern about Illya's unsteadiness, but Napoleon had always been a better judge of deceit than his partner. She gestured off the screen, and they walked off together.

"Is there any more parking out back?" Napoleon looked up from the monitor.

"Well, not for my establishment. But behind the fence there's a lot belonging to that warehouse."

"Thanks."

Napoleon checked around the back of the pub, and found exactly what he had been hoping not to find. There were some slats missing from the wooden fence at the rear of the parking lot, and three short blonde hairs caught in the rough wood of the fence. The ground behind the fence was disturbed, churned up by the muddled impressions of size 15 dress shoes, and size 7 heels.

He found two deep impressions of a set of knees, and a long expanse of flattened grass right beside it. The chunks of shattered plastic nearby appeared to be the remains of Illya's cellphone.

With a deep sigh, Napoleon ran a hand over his face.

He stopped back into the bar before leaving.

"One more question."

"Yeah?" The bartender was slightly more enthusiastic, now that it seemed Napoleon was leaving.

"You said the young woman always paid cash, but what about the 'creep' that was bothering her?"

Twenty minutes later he was outside the upscale condo of Alexander 'Vince' Vinciguerra. The man was quite hungover, which made him painfully easy to manipulate. He didn't even ask to see Napoleon's badge.

"I'm here about some complaints of sexual harassment, actually."

"What?" Vince rubbed his knuckles into his forehead, wincing at the light trickling in the open door. "Gaby actually lodged a complaint? Why would she do that? We're friends. We're practically family. Her uncle's worked for my company for decades."

Napoleon scribbled a bit of nonsense in his notepad and nodded. "Maybe I should talk to her Uncle then. He could give you a character reference."

"Yeah. You should do that." Vince stumbled over to a cabinet in his condo's entryway, and pulled a business card out of the top drawer. "There. Rudi Groth. Gaby's uncle. You can even call into the office if you want to talk to him now. I think my fiancé's in today. You could talk to her too."

Napoleon tossed him a charming smile. "Thank you, sir. I'll do just that."

A quick internet search revealed that Rudi Groth, long-term employee of Vinciguerra shipping, had one niece by his deceased sister: Gabriella Teller. A short time late Napoleon was standing in front of a cheap walk-up with peeling paint and crooked window shutters. Even its better days probably hadn't been that good. Nobody appeared to be home.

Not a problem.

Now Napoleon was a cop, but he'd spent his younger years developing an entirely different type of skills. The kind of skills which would have prohibited him from ever going near the police academy if he'd gotten himself caught. But he hadn't. So here he was.

It took him seconds to jimmy open the back window and slip inside. He'd checked for alarms, but there weren't any.

Illya knew.

About his skills, that is. He'd stopped Napoleon on the sidewalk outside the precinct, as they left work on the third day of their partnership.

"Yes?" Napoleon had given him an ingratiating grin.

Illya didn't return his smile. "If you ever try to lift single item when we're on duty, I will report you right to the Captain."

"How-"

The tall blonde fixed him with scowl that seemed to suggest Napoleon was the source of all the world's woes. Then he turned and left.

It took Napoleon another month to realise that Illya didn't hate him, personally. He scowled at everyone, all the time.

The apartment was small, and messy, in an organic sort of way. Ms. Teller didn't have many belongings, but what she did have was sort of slung around the apartment; none of the appliances sitting quiet square with the walls, pieces of a disassembled food processor drifting over the various surfaces of the living room, none of the furniture quite matching.

Her bedroom was dominated by a work bench, her bed a mere afterthought of a cot in one corner.

It was among the reams of engine blueprints that Napoleon found the photo album.

It was actually more of a scrapbook than a photo album. The photos were glued down, and surrounded by notes, receipts, time lines, and even one short lock of blonde hair.

Every single picture in the book featured Illya.

Illya exiting his apartment. Illya climbing into a taxi. Illya standing at a crime scene, talking to Napoleon.

In quite a few of the pictures he was looking almost directly at the camera with an intense frown, like he could tell he was being watched, but couldn't pinpoint who was watching. Napoleon shifted uncomfortably when he realised how many times he'd caught his partner making that face over the last few weeks, and had merely needled him about daydreaming.

There was a smaller notebook jammed between the pages at the back of the album. Only the first six pages were filled. Each had a place name, and a date at the top, and a newspaper clipping underneath. Two of them he didn't recognize since they were cut from a German language newspaper. Napoleon could speak enough German to tell the articles were about two separate missing persons cases. The other four were cases he was quite familiar with. Four different young men who were missing, presumed dead. They were still unsolved. In all four cases there had been no suspects, or motive for their possible kidnapping and murders. It had been assumed they were crimes of opportunity.

Given how often crimes went unsolved in the real world, it was unsurprising that these six deaths hadn't been connected to each other before. None of the bodies had been found, so the causes of death were unknown.

But now, looking at the six young men, their deaths outlined in the same scrawling handwriting, Napoleon took a deep breath. He was looking at the work of a serial killer.


	3. Gaby

_This is a bit of a quiet, slow chapter, but the next one will be very loud!_

* * *

 **Gabby**

 **.**

It took him a _really_ , _really_ , long time to pass out.

Gabby had to admire his force of will, if nothing else.

He fumbled for a few more minutes, trying to knock away her hand, making a valiant attempt to crawl about foot away before he was too weak to hold himself up. Eventually his body stilled, and he lay at her feet, eyes drooping closed, blinking desperately back open, and then beginning to droop again.

It was both pathetic and inspiring at the same time. He just Would. Not. Give. Up.

She felt a twinge of guilt shift in her stomach.

Gabby hadn't planned on doing this tonight. She hadn't even been sure he'd come by the bar tonight. She wasn't ready.

For one thing, he was _way_ bigger in real life. She'd known he was tall. But _this_ tall? He had to be over two hundred pounds of solid muscle. How was she going to move him?

The thing was, she hadn't planned on liking him so much. He was just a picture taken from afar, a list of personal statistics, an interesting name on paper, until he'd come looming up behind her, nearly making her spit out her drink. It turned out Illya Kuryakin was funny. He played with the watch on his wrist when he was nervous. He was insatiably curious and actually listened when she spoke. Illya was quick to anger, but also painfully careful not to break the barstool when he sat on it, not to accidentally snap the pencil he was using to doodle on a napkin, not to bruise her wrist when he helped her down from her chair. He had absurdly long eyelashes, and blushed a deep pink every time he'd made her laugh.

She liked him, so she couldn't risk it. There might never be a better opportunity. She had to take him tonight.

Which was why Gabby was here in a dark parking lot with a giant at her feet.

"I can't believe I'm doing this."

This was the part the movies never showed. The scene faded to black, and the protagonist woke up in the kidnapper's lair. But getting him from A to B? That was going to be the hardest part.

Gabby crouched down and reached out to press two fingers against Illya's throat. His eyes had finally closed. She'd given him the absolute maximum suggested dose of the sedative, and was hoping very much that she hadn't accidentally killed him. There was no pulse, but that didn't say much. She could never find her own, either. Leaning forward, she set her ear to his chest.

Good, a strong heartbeat.

She couldn't help lingering another second. His chest was firm, and surprisingly warm, considering how icy his hands had been.

Scrambling to her feet, Gabby turned to look at her truck. So much for getting Illya to sit down inside for a minute to 'rest'. That would have made this whole thing miraculously easy.

First things first. If she dragged him down to the parking lot level, she'd never get him back up into the truck. Gabby grabbed the keys from her purse and jumped down to the pavement. When she climbed into the cab of her truck and turned the ignition, she was almost tempted to just drive away and forget this.

"Deep breath. You can do this," she reminded herself. Another couple hours and he'd been hidden away her basement, where no one could find him.

She backed her pickup all the way until the bumper was just touching the retaining wall, and then jumped out to look. The bed of the pickup was about a foot higher than the level of the grass, which was not ideal, but still manageable.

Gabby grabbed a heavy-duty tarp from the back of her truck, set aside for exactly this occasion. First she anchored two ends to the tie-down rings at the back of the truck, and then climbed back up to the grass beside Illya.

"Just a minute and we'll have you moving."

She was talking to an unconscious man.

He of course didn't respond, which was a relief, but also really boring. She kind of wanted to know what Illya's response would have been to all this.

Unrolling the rest of the tarp, Gabby stopped to eye the distance. Illya had fallen right beside the fence. Thank goodness they'd made it as far as they had. She didn't know how she could have moved him if he'd passed out on the other side of the fence. She could probably roll him the fifteen or so feet, to the back of the pickup, but this method would be faster.

Gabby dropped to her knees beside Illya's body, taking a moment to look him over.

He'd ended up on his stomach, with one arm folded underneath him, his left cheek pressed against the grass. It looked uncomfortable, but he seemed to be breathing easily.

She pushed the tarp as far underneath his body as she could, and then pushed him over so he was lying on his back, fully on the tarp. His legs tangled as she moved him, so she took a moment to straighten them out. Then Gabby returned to the cab, put the pickup into gear and rolled down the window. Setting one elbow on the sill, she leaned out, twisting to see behind her.

"Slowly," Gabby muttered, as she edged the pickup forwards. She wanted to pull Illya right up to the end of the grass, but not yank him over the edge where he'd possibly fall and crack his head open on the pavement below.

When she was sure he was as close to the edge as was safe, she put the pickup in park, and climbed out to inspect her work.

Perfect.

Exactly where she wanted him.

His left arm had slipped over the edge of the retaining wall, so she folded it up over his chest.

She backed the truck up again, and then considered the next step: getting Illya up that foot of height into the flatbed. She could lift his upper body off the ground, but couldn't pull hard enough to move him. She could drag his legs up into the bed, but as soon as she moved his torso they just slipped back onto the grass.

In the end, she dragged his legs into the pickup bed, tied them in place, and used an aluminum baseball bat from the backseat to sort of lever him the rest of the way up.

Gabby crawled into the back of the pickup and pulled the tailgate closed behind her.

Illya was facing away from her, his face obscured, but his short blonde hair bright, even in the darkness. With his ankles secured to one end of the pickup, she pushed him until he was stretched the length of the vehicle. His head rolled a little as she lifted his shoulder. He really had the most amazing, long eyelashes. She reached out to touch them where they lay feathered across his cheek. They were soft and shifted under her touch, not stiff with mascara like her own were at the moment.

She brushed back a tuft of hair that had fallen in his face. "We're almost done here."

Grabbing both his wrists, she tied them to the closest tether point. It was more to make sure that he didn't slide around in the back of the truck than anything else. He was still going to be unconscious for a very long time. Finally, she tucked the tarp around him so he was hidden from view.

Before she left, she took a minute to sit with her forehead pressed against the steering wheel of her truck. It had been a long night, and it was just going to get longer from here on in.

"Suck it up, Gabby," she told herself. " _You_ wanted this, so _you_ deal with the consequences."

She put the truck into drive and pulled out onto the empty road.

They weren't returning to her apartment. Her uncle hadn't said anything, but she was sure he was suspicious of what she was up to. If he was watching her apartment, she couldn't let him follow her from there to her current destination. No one else knew about her old penpal, so they wouldn't be able to find the connection between her, and the empty house her friend was letting her use. She'd be completely off the radar, and Illya with her.

The rumble of the pickup reverberated pleasantly through her bones as she drove down the dark city roads. There were still many hours till sunlight, and once she got close to her destination it wouldn't matter anyways. The house was set far back from the road, so there would be no one to see, or hear, anything

When she arrived, she backed the truck as close to the front door as she could. Then she dragged every single pillow, couch cushion and blanket in the house outside, and dumped them behind the back of the truck.

When she untied Illya he didn't make a sound. Gabby winced when she realised his wrists and ankles were red where the ropes had bit into him. At least he hadn't been tossed from the back of the truck?

"Fingers crossed, Illya. Don't die."

There was really no way to get him down from the truck without pushing him.

"&# %!"

He did land safely on the pile of cushions, but sort bounced right off again and hit the concrete walkway.

Gabby hopped down and scrambled to turn Illya over. He'd come down hard on his shoulder, which turned in towards his chest at an awkward angle, and his forehead was awash with blood.

"Damnit!"

This was lining up to be the most awkward kidnapping, ever.

When she pressed the palm of her hand hard against his shoulder, it moved back into place with a muted thump.

"I am so sorry for that. It's not really fair to hurt you when you're not even aware of it."

The cut on his forehead didn't appear to be very deep, so she left it alone. There wasn't time to get out a first aid kit now.

The next part was so awkward she was embarrassed even though there was no one else to see. She'd rented a hand-truck. The kind you used for moving refrigerators, and other large appliances. It was awkward, but she did manage to get him in the front door, through the house, and all the way to the basements stairs. Then there was nothing for it but to very slowly drag him down the steps, hoping he didn't end up with a concussion out of small, accumulated, head bumps.

She was sweating by the time they made it to the bottom, and had to sit and take a break. The sky was finally lightening outside, so eventually she hauled herself back up the stairs to collect the pillows from the walkway.

Bzzzz.

Her phone went off as she was carrying in the last armful.

She dropped the cushions and checked the time. Six fifteen? Who was calling her this early? The number wasn't one she recognized.

Bzzz.

She pressed her eyes tight shut, and answered the call. "Hello?"

With the first syllable of the crisply accented voice, she relaxed, opening her eyes.

"Ms. Teller? It's Alexander Waverly."

"Of course. Mr. Waverly. What can I help you with?"

One of her newest clients, Alexander Waverly was a bit eccentric. He was always hopping around the globe, and never seemed to be aware of what time zone he was calling into. She wasn't entirely sure what he did for a living, but he'd hired her, as a free-lance mechanical engineer, to work on a one-of-a-kind vehicle for him. Sort of a James Bond car, with hidden special features.

"I just got a look at the latest blueprints you sent me, and I think they're coming along nicely, but I've changed my mind about the inside of the car."

She frowned. _Again?_

"Yes?"

"Indeed. Two seats won't be enough. I need at least three, possibly four would be better, and plenty of leg room."

"Leg room?"

"Lots and lots of leg room."

Gabby kicked the pillows the rest of the way into the house, and closed the door behind her as she talked. "Well I'm working on a different project at the moment, but I should be able draw up another set of sketches and send them over, as soon as this is finished."

"It's a specially big project, is it Ms. Teller?"

The corner of her mouth twitched. "Wha- No. Just a simple job. It won't take long."

There was an edge of humour to his voice that made her nervous, but she could never tell when Waverly was being serious or just oddly amused with himself.

A funny pop on the other end of the line made her draw back and stare at the phone for a second before she spoke again. "Hello?"

"Ah. My apologies, Ms. Teller. Just found a piece of information I'd been waiting for. Well, I imagine I've taken up quite enough of your time."

"That's alright," Gabby said, before she realised she was already talking to a dial tone.

Shrugging, she hung up, and looked towards the stairs.

Time to finish what she came here for.

The basement was unfinished, and had no windows. There was a separate bathroom at one end, also with no windows, and no furnishings except for what she'd brought in. She'd purchased a chair just for the occasion. It was an art deco piece, brushed steel with no obvious joints. It would take a soldering iron to break that chair apart. She had to lay it back onto the floor to get Illya into it, and then sit it back up by wedging consecutively bigger blocks of wood under its back until she could lift it upright.

Once she had him where she wanted him, Gabby nudged Illya's knees apart, stepping forward to stand between his long, sprawling legs. She put one hand on the back of his neck, and let him tip forward until he was slumped against her chest. Tugging the shoulders of his bomber jacket down, Gabby had to lift his arms one by one to strip off the piece of clothing. Underneath, he was wearing a turtleneck sweater, of all things. Somehow, he actually made it look good.

"Are you wearing anything else?" She lifted the bottom of his sweater and found he had an undershirt on, so she stripped off the turtleneck as well. She didn't know if real-life cops carried hidden knifes, or lock picks, but she wasn't going to risk it. Seeing his bare arms would also make her feel better. No tricks up his sleeves. She couldn't help wincing a little when his shoulder was revealed to be blooming with purple and blue bruises.

She pushed Illya upright again, watching when his head flopped over the back of the chair. He was _so_ tall. She possibly should have bought a chair with a headrest.

Gabby took his belt, his socks and shoes, and then emptied out his pockets, dumping everything on the table in a corner of the basement. Grabbing a role of duct tape, she wrapped it a couple times around his chest to keep him upright. "I guess this is sort of going to ruin your clothes," she said softly. "But I think it will probably be the last thing on your mind once you wake up."

His wrists had also begun to bruise, but she still zip tied them to the arms of the chair, and then wrapped them in duct tape as well. She repeated the process for his elbows and ankles, and then used the tape to secure his legs to the chair, just below the knee, because she'd run out of zip ties.

"There you go." Gabby took a step back and looked him over. There was no way he was moving an inch, if she didn't want him to. She wasn't unaware that he outweighed her by nearly a hundred pounds, was over a foot taller than her, and could probably break her bones without effort. But right now she had all the power.

There was a gun on the table in the corner as well as several doses of injectable sedative, there was not a single other person in hearing distance, and no one else knew the current location of Illya Kuryakin.

Now she just had to wait for him to wake up.


	4. Illya Part II

_I was on vacation, but now I'm back!_

* * *

 **Illya**

 **.**

Illya blinked and shook his head to clear the grogginess.

He wasn't dead. What a nice development.

Illya looked around. There had been no noise as he had struggled to the surface of consciousness. He was alone now, in what looked like an unfinished basement.

Fantastic.

Nothing good ever happened in basements.

There was no door on the entrance to the room behind him, and he could see cement steps leading up to the main floor. He appeared to be strapped to a sturdy metal chair with no obvious weak points. His chest was wrapped with duct tape, but it wasn't difficult to push against the material until he could twist enough to see behind him. The restraints that secured his arms and legs to the chair were different. When he pulled against the arms of the chair he could feel plastic cutting into his wrists. Zip ties. Not easy to break on a good day, and much worse when they were covered in sticky duct tape.

Illya stretched as much as he could and realised he had new bruises. Not serious ones, but he was sore. His neck ached when he rolled it from side to side, and his left shoulder wasn't responding properly. From what he could see, it was pretty badly swollen.

Most of his clothes and belongings were piled on a table in the corner of the room, but thankfully he'd been left with his undershirt and pants intact. Although actually, his pants were now grass stained, and covered in small tears. Odd.

Illya looked to the door. There was a faint track on the floor from the doorway to his chair. Interesting. He had literally been dragged down the stairs and over to his current position. No wonder he was sore.

A distant creak sounded behind him, and Illya froze. There were light footsteps on the stairs, and he saw the small pair of loafers and jean clad legs before his captor appeared in the doorway. It was Gaby, now dressed down in casual clothes, with her long brown hair swept up in a tangled bun.

"I really, really hope you haven't found some way of undoing those, because then I'd have to shoot you, and that would defeat the whole purpose of bringing you here in the first place."

Illya waited, jaw clenched tight, as she slowly made her way around in front of him, carefully keeping far out of his reach. She did have a gun in one hand, although the safety was on, and she had it pointed at the floor. He threw her a fierce frown, and felt hot blood trickle down the side of his face as a cut broke open on his forehead again.

Her dark brown eyes flickered over him, taking in everything, and then settling on his face. She winced. "Sorry about your head. I had a bit of difficulty getting you down the stairs. You're really, very heavy."

"I hope you pulled a muscle," Illya snapped. As comebacks went, Napoleon would have been disappointed in him, but Illya was still working off the drugs, and couldn't even see entirely straight. He was allowed a few weak lines.

Gaby sat down on the stool against the far wall, perching like a weightless bird. Illya's heart beat a painful rhythm within him.

"So you are probably under the impression that you've been kidnapped, which, yes, you have been. But not for any of the reasons you've been thinking."

Illya hadn't been thinking about her reasons at all, really. He was still too shocked, and although he didn't want to admit it, hurt, that she'd turned on him.

"I've been watching you." She saw his eyebrows press together and clarified. "Not just at the bar. For a couple weeks now. But I've been watching you, and you're very stubborn."

Illya stiffened. "And this concerns you, how?"

Gabby folded her arms across her chest and considered him seriously. "Do you remember when that docks worker went missing in New Jersey last year?"

Illya nodded slowly, his expression tight with suspicion.

"And the chemist from Queens, the year before?"

"Yes."

"And the cop from Maryland, where they never found the body?"

"Yes, I remember!" Illya snapped. "What about them?"

Gabby stood up and walked a little closer. Her tiny shoes made barely any noise on the concrete floor. "I found some… evidence that they were all killed by the same person. I think my uncle is a serial killer, and you're his next target."

Oh.

 _Oh_.

This was absolutely nowhere in the realm of things he'd been expecting her to say.

"Me? But… Why?"

"I'm not sure why, yet. But I found dozens and dozens of pictures of you in his office. He's been watching you for months. He even has a clump of your hair."

Illya made an abortive attempt to reach up and touch his hair, and then glanced down in absent surprise when his hand wouldn't move. "This does not make the sense. Why… I do not believe you."

He strained against the ropes again, baring his teeth at her. "You say this only as an excuse for yourself."

"I'm not making excuses!" she retorted, a scowl taking over her face. "I'm trying to save your life!"

"You kidnapped me!"

Gabby let out a little rumble at the back of her throat that sounded almost like a growl. Illya couldn't keep the heat from flooding the back of his neck.

"I know I kidnapped you! That is super, obviously, clear to me! But if I had come up to you and told you that you were in danger and you needed to go into hiding, would you have listened?"

"Of course not," Illya sneered, "I'm not a coward. I would find this uncle of yours and face him, myself."

Throwing her hands up in the air, in frustration, Gabby' voice rose further in volume. "See? And then you would die, and it would be all my fault."

"I am a trained police officer. I would not die."

"Yes you would! He's a sadist, Illya. He loves a challenge. He wants someone strong-willed and-" she gestured at his body, cheeks flushing as she continued yelling at him. "And- physically fit. He would take you, and hurt you, and, and, never stop!"

The gun in her right hand was visibly trembling and Illya eyed her warily.

"So this now. You mean to take me and keep me hidden and safe?"

"Yes." Gabby glared at him.

"For how long? I am not a little animal, a pet you can keep on a leash."

"Not for long." Gabby turned and retreated back to her stool. "I just need some solid evidence. I know Uncle Rudi. I know he will have kept… prizes. Photos, evidence, something to remind him of his – of what he did. He wouldn't be able to help it. He just loves to cause pain. He's always enjoyed being casually cruel: pressing people and insulting them in just the way that he knows will hurt the worst."

Illya frowned, and wiggled in his seat. "That is not evidence that he is a killer."

"I _know_. But after the dock worker went missing he was following the news like it was a soap opera, and he _never_ watches the news. He thought it was funny! I've worked out that his last six vacations have all coincided with an unsolved murder. When he went back to Germany to visit my family, someone disappeared there, too. And that's only as far as I've managed to track it. For all I know he's been killing people his whole life."

Swallowing back a surge of empathy, Illya steeled himself to hold onto his anger. "You told me you moved here five years ago, if that wasn't all a lie. What is different now, that you have to take me against my will, not even try to see if I will listen? Did it take you this long to figure it out?"

Gabby flushed a deep red, the colour lighting up under her copper skin till it glowed like a setting sun on the desert. ' _A Firebird_ ', was the absurd notion that crossed Illya's thoughts, before he shook it away.

"It did take me a long time to figure it out." She was angry now, as angry as he was. "To figure out Uncle Rudi wasn't right in the head. But I tried before. I was getting suspicious before Mr. Carroll was killed."

"The dock worker?"

"Yes, the docks worker. I called him. I went to a lot of trouble to get in contact with him without my uncle finding out and I told him what I suspected and he didn't believe me at all! He wouldn't listen. Just laughed!"

"Did you go to the police?"

Gaby jumped back down from her chair, pacing the floor furiously. "Of course I went to the police! But they didn't take me seriously. At that point I didn't have any photos. They told me I had no real evidence, which I don't."

"But you saw the photos of me," Illya shook his head, confused.

"Yes, but that doesn't prove anything, except that he's been following you. Stalking isn't the same thing as murder."

"Well it's a start."

Gaby stopped her pacing to stare at him. "It's not enough. I broke into his safe at work to take the album of your pictures. I'd started to worry that he'd take you before I could stop him. I thought maybe there would be a clue to when he'd act. Where he'd take you. But there wasn't, and even though he doesn't know for sure, I think he suspects me, and now he's aware somebody knows about his… obsession. He won't let this go, that I'm sure of."

"Do you think he's dangerous?" Illya demanded.

Gaby raised an eyebrow at him, incredulous.

"To you. Would your uncle hurt you?"

"I don't know. Maybe?" Gaby frowned, frustrated. "It's not me that's in danger."

"Gabby, you need to let me go."

"Why? We just had an entire conversation covering why I can't let you go."

Illya shook his head, focussing on her with all the earnest attention he could muster. "Those still are not good reasons. I do no accept your logic. But other reason is the Cowboy. He-"

"Solo?"

"Yes. He will come for me, and thinking you are evil, he may hurt you."

Gabby fisted her hands on her hips. "How exactly do you think he's going to do that, Illya?"

"Hurt you?"

"No. Come find you. I'm hiding from my uncle, who knows me. How on earth is your partner, who doesn't know me at all?"

"He will," said Illya, stubbornly.

"You are impossible!"

This was probably meant to be an insult, but Illya didn't see it that way. "Let me go."

"No."

"I will help you find your evidence. Then we will both be safe."

Gaby narrowed her eyes. "I don't believe you. The first moment you think my uncle's a danger to someone else, you're going to throw yourself in front of a bullet and get yourself killed."

"Let. Me. Go."

"No!"

Gritting his teeth, Illya locked eyes with her, and started yanking at his restraints, rocking back and forth and pulling at the bindings violently.

"Stop it!" Gaby cried, rushing forward. "You're going to hurt yourself."

They always underestimated him. Everyone thought they could overcome his strength with enough violence or effort. But it wasn't Illya's height and size that lent him his real power. It was his sheer, inflexible, headstrong determination. They didn't call him stubborn for nothing.

The zip ties around his wrists bit deep into the skin, drawing blood, so he put all his focus into his legs where his slacks protected him from the cut of the plastic. Illya took a deep breath and exerted every bit of force he could.

Snap!

The locking mechanism snapped clear off the strap around his right ankle, and Gaby jumped in shock. "Stop!"

She raised the gun in her right hand and aimed it at him.

"Are you going to shoot me?" he asked, head cocked to one side.

She froze.

Illya blinked, waiting. He didn't want her to shoot him. Not because it would hurt, but because he wanted her to like him. Wanted her to like him too much to cause him pain. _Please._ He didn't want to be a means to an end, or a way to assuage her guilt. He didn't want Gaby to be another person that used him and didn't care.

Gaby turned the gun in her hand slowly, prying her eyes away from him to consider the weapon. It was a long minute before she lowered it. "It's not even loaded. I can't shoot you. Won't."

Illya sagged against his bonds. "Just let me go. We can do this together."

She rubbed a hand over her face. "I'm not a police officer, Illya. I'm a mechanical engineer. I don't even know if I can do this. I've only been able to think of one other place Rudi might hide his 'souvenirs'."

"Where?"

Gaby opened her mouth to answer, but stopped when she saw Illya go completely still.

"Illya?"

"Shhhh."

Illya was sure he'd heard something.

He had definitely heard something.

"It's Napoleon! Gaby, cut me loose. Quickly!"

Gaby drew back, affronted. "What? You're crazy. How would he find us?"

"Gaby!"

"No. It can't be your partner."

"It is. Napoleon always finds me."

She shook her head, and then startled when they heard a door above them slam, and a smooth male called out. "Knock, knock. Anybody home?"

Gaby backed away to the corner of the room, raising her empty weapon to point at the door.

Illya twisted as far as he could, looking towards the stairs. Somehow, Napoleon avoided every single creak in the stairs, and his shiny designer shoes appeared in their view without making a sound.

Illya glanced at Gaby. She was shaking, her face a tight mask, but her eyes frightened.

His partner emerged in the basement doorway, his gun drawn and the safety off. He was in plainclothes, but Napoleon's love of fitted dress clothes always had the effect of rendering him more intimidating than a uniform ever could. He looked like James Bond: lethal, but less restrained by the law than any cop.

"Napoleon, stop!" Illya yelled, straining against his bindings. "She's okay! Gaby's on our side."

Napoleon spared him a sideways glance. "I know."

"You do?"

"I found the photo album in your apartment," he directed at Gaby. "The handwriting is completely different from everything else in your room. It obviously wasn't yours."

Illya's train of thought stuttered. It always surprised him when Napoleon actually deigned to use his brain for something other than flirting and causing mischief.

Napoleon was smiling at him now, that small twitch of his lips that showed he was distinctly amused. Illya scowled.

"Somebody's looking a little worse for wear," Napoleon commented, assessing every inch of his partner that was visible. Then he lowered his weapon and flicked on the safety, turning his attention to Gaby. "It's your Uncle Rudi, isn't it?"

Gaby nodded, speechless.

"He's got his eye on Illya as his next victim?"

She nodded again, and then swallowed. "How did you find us?"

Napoleon strolled over to the table in the corner and prodded at the pile of his partner's clothing, "Well first I did a bit of research to find out what I was heading into. But I'm afraid it was as simple as following Illya's jacket."

"What?"

Illya's jaw jutted out as he caught the reference. "Did you put a tracker on me?"

"Of course not, partner mine. The tracker was yours. Don't you remember the equipment you've been carrying around in your pocket all week, messing with the receiver input? I simply had Rob at work set up another receiver set to follow the same signal."

Napoleon turned to face them and displayed his hand, palm up. A small pile of electronics glistened at them cheerily.

Illya dropped his head and groaned aloud.

Napoleon winked at Gaby, his gleaming smile disturbingly wolfish.


End file.
